Virgins are like the fair flowr in its lustre,Which in the garden enamels the ground,Near it the bees in play flutter and cluster,And gaudy butterflies frolic around.But when once plucked tis no longer alluring,To Convent-garden tis sent (as yet sweet),There fades and shrinks, and grows past all enduring,Rots, stinks, and dies and is trod under feet. John Gay